A war arose within her, and she didn’t know which side should win. It felt like no matter what, she’d lose a part of herself.
On one hand, she wanted to let this proud Scotsman beg her father, then spend the rest of her days living how they had during their time at Woodrest—taking care of the estate, then coming together with that combustive passion they’d discovered. But would that be fair to him? Whether by choice or chance, he’d not mentioned love, but she knew Ethan wanted something that resembled it. When he spoke of his parents, it was clear they were a love match, though his experience differed greatly from hers. Sure, she cared about him. Desired him. But love? How did someone determine that emotion without good examples?
Setting aside the scary concept of love, he deserved partnership at the very least. A marriage built on friendship and lust could be a happy medium between their two visions for a future.
On the other hand, that house by the sea, with its siren song of freedom, called to her. She wasn’t convinced that kisses—no matter how toe curling—were worth losing that independence.
Her silence stretched for too long, because Ethan set the horses in motion again, heading back toward Gunther’s. Helping him understand what was in her head would be a challenge when the thoughts weren’t clear even to her. But opening himself to her like that had taken courage, and he deserved an answer. She only wished she had one that felt definitive.
“I want you, but I want the future I’ve worked for too. If there’s a compromise, let’s try to find it. After all, if our passion burns out, we might share enough common interests to live peaceably. Or I can retreat to my estate, and you to yours, then we can coexist miles apart without rancor. We might even manage an heir before the attraction fades.”
“Your inner romantic needs work, lass,” he said, but his tone wasn’t teasing. Had she hurt him with her honesty?
“Please understand, I’m trying to be pragmatic about this, Ethan. Have you considered that Father is someone you’ll have to deal with forever? He isn’t a dragon we slay once, then never have to see again. That assumes we get him to agree to the match—which we both know is against reasonable odds.”
They arrived at numbers 7 and 8 Berkeley Square with its signature pineapple décor visible through the window. Resting the reins on his knees, he stared down at his boots, avoiding her gaze. “It’s a gamble. Any relationship is. But I think you’re worth the risk. Or you can end it. Our month is up the day after the ball.”
She squeezed his fingers. “I don’t want to hurt you. If we married, what if you came to resent our agreement in a few years? Can I think about what you’ve said for a bit?”
“Aye. Take all the time you need, lass.” Their fingers interlaced for a moment before he released her and stepped down from the seat to tie off the horses.
When she stepped down from the carriage, a leaflet blew onto her boot, then stuck. Lottie kicked, trying to dislodge the newsprint. Grasping Ethan’s arm for balance, she peeled the paper off her shoe, along with a wet autumn leaf acting as glue between boot and leaflet. The edge caught on her glove and wouldn’t budge. Flicking her hand only made it worse.
“Ethan, would you mind? This paper seems far more enamored of me than I am of it.”
It was only when he’d removed the soggy mess from her hand that she registered the blurred picture on the newssheet. Caricatures of Lottie and Ethan stood at the altar, while another man, who was clearly meant to be Montague, knelt behind her, clutching her hand desperately, looking forlorn. Another sketch starring her private life.
A cold lump of resignation settled in her belly. The scandal continued, and there seemed to be nothing she could do about it. Would her time in London always be plagued by these kinds of mocking sketches? Sending up a quick prayer that the gossip hadn’t reached her father in Westmorland, she attempted a joking demeanor. The newspapers would not ruin their day.
“Well, that’s just rude. Is my bum really that huge? Please tell me there’s been creative license taken by a particularly vile artist.” Ethan’s solid presence reminded her that she wasn’t the only target of the gossips. Having an ally helped alleviate some of the frustration.
“These damn cartoons are getting worse. Your bum is perfect—not as it’s portrayed here. See how they’ve drawn my chin? If it was that blocky in real life, I’d cut myself on it while shaving. The caricaturist was not kind. Although that pathetic expression on Montague’s face is a perfect likeness.” Ethan crumpled the soggy paper in his fist, then threw it aside. “Enough. What flavor of ice do you want? We can share one if you prefer.”
“Chocolate. And I’m not sharing—even if my hind end does resemble a horse in that horrible cartoon.” She picked her way across the slick cobblestones to the door without waiting for his assistance. “Do you think the rags will find another target soon? This is getting tiresome.”
Ethan hurried to catch up, then held the door open. “We might have a bit of storm tae weather out just yet. You’re more interesting than you thought, Princess.”
He winked as she passed in front of
